


The Warrior and The Wolf

by Sodafly



Series: Weapons of Vengeance [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Dirty Talk, Hunter!Stiles, M/M, Sadism, Stiles is a bit of a nutcase, Violence, alternative universe, and Derek is desperate to get into his pants, minor gore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-24
Updated: 2012-08-24
Packaged: 2017-11-12 19:36:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/494912
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sodafly/pseuds/Sodafly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It is not the hunters that the supernatural residents of this city fear.  Not hunters, but an avenger; a creature who takes the lives of those who fall prey to animal instinct and kill humans.  They speak of black eyes, of a variety of weapons, of mountain ash and one claw like hand. Some have even gone as far as to say it’s like Little Red Riding Hood has taken the ears of the wolf she slays as a token, stitching them onto her hood. </p><p>Derek would normal dismiss these rumours, wave them off as an exaggerated fairy tale. That is, he would, if he hadn’t already seen it</p><p>(In which rogue hunter Stiles Stilinski teams up with lone werewolf Derek Hale to achieve a common goal)</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Warrior and The Wolf

**Author's Note:**

> Yet again, [Lea](http://hoellenbrut.tumblr.com/) has been encouraging me to do bad things. So I present you with a darker AU because Hunter!Stiles makes me weak at the knees. 
> 
> This has not been Beta'ed, so I'm sorry for any glaringly obvious errors.

_‘He who seeks vengeance must dig two graves; one for his enemy and one for himself’ – Chinese Proverb_

**/STILES/**

“Now isn’t really a good time.” Stiles says softly when he eventually manages to pull his phone out of his belt.

“Oh, I forgot its Friday night, are you meeting with a girl?” Is the intrigued, slightly taunting reply his father gives. Stiles smirks, resisting the urge to scratch his nose with blood coated fingers.

“Something like that.” Well he had met with a girl...sort of. The outcome of said meeting probably wasn’t the kind his father would be expecting. Putting it into the context of a ‘date’, said ‘date’ didn’t end well for the young lady. Let’s just say, they weren’t each other’s types.

“Well don’t let me keep you; I’ll give you a call later.”

“No, no wait.” Stiles says quickly, one hand flapping as if it’ll stop his father from hanging up. It feels bad because Stiles isn’t meeting up with anyone, he just happens to be a dirty, if not rather compulsive, liar.  It’s too late, the line went dead and the monotonous dial rings too loudly in his ears. Biting down hard on his bottom lip, Stiles looks down at the blank phone screen, hitting one gloved hands against the steering wheel.

 “Nice one Stilinski, way to be a dick.” Insulting oneself is always the best remedy for these situations, swinging out of the jeep’s front seat and walking towards his apartment building, hands stuffed into pockets. His roommate, Scott, won’t be home so it’s safe enough for Stiles to keep the majority of his gear on before he goes through the front door. At least one of them actually maintains a life and is able to get a date; Scott is taking one for the team by dating Allison.

Pulling off the black scarf and peeling the leather of the fingerless glove off his left hand, Stiles drops the dirt attire into the sink to soak before placing them in the washing machine.  Really, there’s no hope for his clothes any more, sullied with dirt and blood and stains from age old battles.  Putting the clothes on a spin cycle, Stiles picks up an old towel and heads to the bathroom, twisting the shower dial and waiting as the tiny windowless room fills with steam.

Blood has dried in streaks on his forearms, fingers coated, with splatters forming crimson freckles on his neck. Truth be told, he’s been worse states, but that doesn’t mean washing it all off is any easier.  No doubt that’ll be another flannel needing to be thrown away.  The water runs hot over the tight skin of Stiles’ shoulders, mixing with the city dirt and leaving swirling grey pools in the shower pan.

He can remember it in flashes, the muggy evening spent leaning up against a brick wall, tapping a baseball bat against the pavement. It’s only a matter of time until the correct prey appears, jogging down the rickety fire escape which leads straight onto the ally he’s hid in. His gloves have been fastened, scarf tied, goggles down, hood up, every back up weapon in place.

The blood smears in the water for a second, rubbing in circles before catching in the fibres of the flannel.

Today’s target had been a woman. Stiles didn’t know what kind of supernatural creature she was, it didn’t matter. What mattered were the two dead children, families devastated, killer never found. Well, never found by anyone except Stiles...now she definitely wouldn’t be found.

She hadn’t seen him at first, not until the last second. Baseball bat gripped in both hands, Stiles took a breath and stepped out from the shadow. The hit was off, connecting with her shoulder hard enough to make her stumble into the wall. She snarled at him, swinging with claws of her own, blocked by the baseball bat connecting with her wrist.

It’s hardest to clean the blood from his fingernails. It’s dried and flaky but taking shelter under the nail. Scrunching up his face, Stiles scrubs hard, scratching into the flannel.

Compared to other fights, it wasn’t too impressive. Stiles could tell by the look in her eyes that she knew who he was, or at least knew the persona. Quite the reputation had been gained over the past year. Thrusting his weight forward, she staggers backwards, up against the wall.

“Please, have mercy; I have better control now I promise.”

He hates it when they talk; it always makes it harder to do.  Adjusting his grip, Stiles shakes his head, gritting his teeth almost painfully hard and swings. The blood splatters onto his neck, the soft plating of her temple caving in, and the body crumples. There’s enough time. Dropping the bat, Stiles crouches by the body, taking a small plastic vial filled with black powder, the type of bottle used to carry soap when travelling.  Making a small incision at the base of the neck, Stiles unscrews the cap with his teeth and forces a good handful of mountain ash into the wound, fingers parting the flesh to make the groove bigger, blood spilling onto his hand. There’s a sizzle at first, then black blood starts oozing from the wound, dribbling out her nostrils and tear ducts. It always takes a good five minutes to take effect, until her insides turn brittle and charged and by morning there will be nothing but a pile of ash. 

Turning off the stream of water, Stiles shoulders open the clear plastic door and grabs a towel from over the sink.  Wrapping the towel around his waist, Stiles wanders into his bedroom, moving aside curtains covering the wall opposite his bed to reveal a whiteboard with pictures taped around the edges. He can wipe off the latest case now, leaving a large expanse of the board clear.  This job is not a walk in the park, but luckily Stiles has been in enough police stations to know how to properly set up an investigation wall. He throws away the notes that are no longer relevant and places the pin in a rusted tin.

Now that the threat has been eliminated, there’s more time to focus on the latest case. A case, Stiles is well aware, that will probably lead to his death.

*

Death can do strange things to people. To some it can be an inspiring event, one which acts as motivation to do moral good. Everyone has heard it at least once, at some large charity event, where an organizer or main sponsor is ‘doing this great deed in memory of [insert deceased love one here]’.  To others, it can drive them off the rail. Death can turn normal people into murders. Install a blood lust, as if the death of another is the only way to make the pain stop.

Stiles likes to think he’s a mixture of the two. He is a weapon of vengeance, a server of ultimate justice.  After all, you don’t have to be a psychopath to be a killer...you just need a good enough reason.

Stiles’ affair with the supernatural began when he was five. Spending his toddler years in Eastern European regions, where supernatural creatures roamed much more freely than they do in America, resulted in knowledge of creatures purely to keep him safe. His mother had been a hunter; fierce and merciless towards those who did not keep to the code. Stiles can remember her, kissing him on the forehead in the dead of night.

“I’m going out to keep you safe” She whispered, cross bow slung across her back, warm fingers sliding through his short hair. Stiles blinked bleary, falling back to sleep when the single strip of light from the hallway disappears as the bedroom door closes. 

His dad had known as well, had been involved from the sidelines instead of the front. Being a police officer granted some specialist information which could be used in investigations, without necessarily being singled out as a target.

Needless to say, Stiles wasn’t afraid of monster when he was a child. 

No, not afraid; not then, not now, not ever.  Fear of the unknown is for the weak.

“So how did that thing go with Allison last night?” Scott brightens up at that, hurriedly swallowing his mouthful of toast. They’re sat opposite one another on the couch, legs tucked under their bodies with plates of burnt toast in their laps.

“Totally awesome, she really liked that necklace I got her, thanks for the tip man. We’re going out again tomorrow...you won’t mind will you?”

“No, its fine, I’ll just get some work done.” Stiles shrugs. Scott dating Allison has more benefits than his friend is aware of. Stiles knows she’s an Argent, part of one of the most notorious hunting families in the world, even if she isn’t actively involved just yet. Having Scott keep her sweet gives Stiles the chance to pinpoint their position, making sure they don’t find him. Scott tends to talk a lot, and since Allison tells her boyfriend everything, Stiles always ends up finding out, be it by the slip of the tongue or not.

The last thing he needs is the Argents sending out a search party...and then probably a court marshal.

“Oh, I have to tutor tonight, so don’t worry if I’m not home.” Stiles lies whilst he remembers to. Scott nods.

“I know where the number for the pizza takeout is.” Stuck to the fridge...alongside numbers for various over takeout places and the landlord, in case the pipe in the bathroom splits open again. This is what happens when two teenagers can’t get rooms on the college campus, everything goes to hell.

Rising from the worn out sofa, Stiles places his empty plate on the counter top before sliding into his bedroom. His laptop bag with books in is sitting on his desk, leaning against a much larger duffle bag filled with a variety of suspicious materials.  If he was ever pulled over by the cops with that bag in his jeep...well he’d have a tough time explaining it.

Giving the bag a once over, Stiles pulls the zip shut and secures the Velcro straps, swinging it over his shoulder. During the daylight hours, the weapon is sheathed and Stiles is at ease.

**/DEREK/**

A week ago, Laura died. No, a week ago, Laura was murdered; body torn apart and abandoned in two different parts of the woods. The search for the murderer had lead Derek here, to the place where the sleepy town of Beacon Hills finally met the city. It smells of decay and gasoline, suffocating compared to the fresh open air of the forest. But Derek has had time; he’s lived in cities much bigger than this before, with people much nastier, so adjusting takes no time at all.

The streetlights don’t shine brightly in alley ways, but when one sense in impair, the other four flourish.  The smell of smoke, the type that makes one’s eyes sting, and blood has lead him here, lead him all the way from Laura’s body. It’s harder to track now, what with the stronger more constant scents of the city masking it, but the lingering feeling of feral and distinctly werewolf vibes is enough. Sure it may send him off track a few times, send him to a dead end, but like all mazes Derek will find the end eventually.

He scowls, sniffs the air a couple of times.  There’s a sweet smell, strong, like wild berries and men’s deodorant, the copper smell of days maybe even months old blood spill. It leaves a tangy taste in the back of his throat.  Shaking his head, Derek turns the corner, hand trailing across the brick wall and feeling the ghost of where a werewolf body slunk within these shadows.

Crouched in the alley way, is...well Derek doesn’t know what it is. It’s folded in, taking photos of the ground with what looks like a phone. All Derek can see is black jeans, boots, a thick belt with several slots in. It’s wearing a red hoody, the type that has animal ears sewn onto the hood. But the ears aren’t floppy; they’re stiff and stick out to form twin triangles.  The figure rises to its feet, roughly the same height as Derek, but leaner, skinnier.

Derek freezes as the figure turns towards him. Under the hood, the face is covered by a black scarf pulled up over the nose ridge, a pair of black goggles pushed up onto the person’s forehead to show two honey warm eyes. For a moment, Derek is unsure what the stranger will do, standing frozen just as the werewolf is. They’re close to one another; it wouldn’t take much to reduce the distance.  Glancing down at the pavement, Derek’s jaw tenses instantly.

There, scratched into the pavement, is a spiral. A spiral of revenge.

“Who are you? What are you doing here?” Derek spits out, turning a hot gaze to the stranger, who has taken the time to slide his goggles back over his eyes. For a weaker, frightened mind, the image would be terrifying, with nothing but street lamps catching in the pitch black frames.  There is no answer.

Growling with anger, Derek rushes up to the hooded man, slamming him up against the wall by the shoulders. He knows his eyes are flashing blue, but it’s too late to stop it.  

“Tell me want you’re doing here, or I’ll pull off your fingers slowly until you do.”  The hooded man tilts his head to the side, mockingly similar to the way a dog does. Derek goes to growl again, but it comes out as a surprised howl as claws pierce into his flank. The loosened hold is all it takes and the stranger wriggles free, delivering a sharp kick to Derek’s ribs.

It hurts, but the claw wound it already starting to heal. He lunges, claws of his own swiping out and catching the skin of the other’s bicep, tearing the red sleeve of the hoody. There’s a cry of pain but that doesn’t stop Derek, who strikes forward, missing the nimble stranger who dances away from every blow. It’s when the stranger twists on the balls of his feet, making Derek turn so they’re not back to back, does the werewolf notices the wound is not healing. It’s bleeding free and heavily, coating the sleeve with warm crimson liquid.

The attacker is human, there’s no way he can be anything else.  Derek knows he has to stop, knows he could easily kill the human.  Besides he probably doesn’t even know the meaning of the spiral, most likely thinks it’s just a cool bit of street art or something.

There’s a flash of amber lighting catching in metal and Derek feels sharp points breaking the skin of his cheek. Three long slashes have torn the skin wide open, one slash ripping right through into the cave of his mouth. It hurts and Derek wonders what it is the human is wearing to form claws like that, claws as deadly as his own.

But it’s too late because the stranger is gone, boots pounding on the ground as he flees.  

“Shit.” Derek hissed under his breath, pressing his fingers to the healing wounds, the tips coming away bloody and slick. Pushing away from the wall, Derek charges through the alley, but does not catch the hooded man again.

*

Apparently, it is not the hunters that the supernatural residents of this city fear.  Not hunters, but an avenger; a creature who takes the lives of those who fall prey to animal instinct and kill humans.  They speak of black eyes, of a variety of weapons, of mountain ash and one claw like hand. Some have even gone as far as to say it’s like Little Red Riding Hood has taken the ears of the wolf she slays as a token, stitching them onto her hood.

Derek would normal dismiss these rumours, wave them off as an exaggerated fairy tale. That is, he would, if he hadn’t already seen it, if he hadn’t already smelt it.

Derek didn’t know if it was just him. No one else had mentioned the scent, but maybe they hadn’t gotten close enough. It seemed that this warrior wasn’t the type to let its prey leave his sight alive. Yet Derek can remember the smell as clear as day, the wild berries and rusted blood, it is so strong in his senses that he knows he’ll be able to track it anywhere.

This is why, when Derek is hit by a sudden wave of said smell when buying milk at the store, he isn’t too surprised. It’s been two days since the attack in the alley way and the scent has been tormenting him ever since. Derek can’t fucking resist it; he has to track, follow the scent all the way to a student coffee shop around the corner.  The coffee shop is tiny, a little too warm for his liking, but it’s heaving with college students on pilgrimage to buy coffee they can afford.  The door dings as its pushed open gingerly.

That’s when Derek sees him, sat on his own at a two person table at the back, reading through a thick text book with highlighter pen poised in hand. Despite not seeing any of his features before, Derek knows it’s him. Leaning against the wall, he takes a moment to evaluate what has every werewolf in town so scared.

He’s young, can’t be any older than twenty, with too short hair and slender fingers. There’s a blue patch of ink staining the corner of his mouth from pen chewing, and the fabric of his plaid shirt stretches perfectly across his shoulders. Others may not notice, but Derek can make out the slight upraise on his bicep, arm bandaged from Derek’s claw wound.

Smirking slightly, Derek decides not to wait any longer, making his way across the floor and pulling out the spare chair. He can see the boys long eyelashes lift as he sits down, pinning Derek with eyes of molten gold. If he recognises the werewolf, he gives no indication.

“You never told me what you were doing in that alley way.” Derek says, leaning forward so his hands are clasped on the table. There’s mug half filled with coffee, an espresso with extra shot, foam congealing at the rim.

“I’m a college student; I was mostly likely taking a piss after a heavy night partying around town.” He bats his eye lids innocently and Derek frowns.

“I know you’re not just a college student”

“Don’t know what you’re talking about.” He replies, but the tiny smile says otherwise. “Just so you know, I don’t like sharing my table with hot strangers with unknown intentions unless I’m on a blind date. So if you don’t mind.”

He makes a shooing motion with his hands.

“Fine, I’m Derek...and you?” Derek grinds out, knowing he won’t get any further without proper introductions. It makes the other beam though, and he sets down his highlight to extend a hand.

“Stiles.” They clasp hands briefly, it cannot be qualified as a handshake because...well, handshakes don’t work that way.  “Now it seems that you, like me, has a little supernatural problem on your hands.”

Stiles says lowly, as if he’s whispering something dirty into Derek’s ear. He might as well be with the way his eye lids lower like that.

“Don’t start thinking I’m here to team up with you.” Derek growls. He doesn’t need anyone getting in the way. A pink tongue flicks out over those ink blotched lips.

“Why not? Think about it; we have a common enemy, you have all the powers of a deadly creature of the night, I have all the experience of killing said creatures of the night. As far as I’m concerned, I couldn’t pick a greater tag team.”

Stiles moves, folding his arms lazily across the text book, pinning Derek with a look that makes the Beta want to jump over the table and _take._

“Unless there is something else you want from me?” Stiles practically purrs, as if attuned to Derek’s thoughts.  He swallows, throat suddenly feeling dry.

“You’re a hunter?” Those half lidded eyes turn heavenward in an exasperated eye roll.

“Don’t play dumb, it’s not pretty. I know your werewolf buddies have probably already told you what I am. I’m well aware of my reputation.”  Pushing the text book into the bag slung across the chair back, Stiles pulls himself from the chair, downing the last of the lukewarm coffee in one gulp. Derek blinks, watching warily as Stiles starts to walk off, glancing over his shoulder when he notices he’s left something...or rather, someone behind.

“C’mon, zero tag teaming can commence sat in a coffee shop.” This is how Derek finds himself following a very strange teenager to a rundown apartment building a couple of blocks away. Stiles has this way of walking, hopping on the balls of his feet as if he’s skipping through a field of daisy. He moves around a lot, one moment at Derek’s side, the next a couple of steps in front, but then he’s turning on his feet to face Derek and walk backwards for a couple of steps. Smacking into a few passersby like this does not deter the constant energy just pouring from the teen.

Derek feels exhausted just watching Stiles jitter about with surprising grace, and for a brief moment he finds himself wondering just how flexible Stiles is. Whether or not that energy can be channelled and extinguished when engaged in other activities.

Nevertheless, they find themselves in the stair well, Stiles bounding up two steps at a time until he reaches the third floor.

“Not that I have a problem with hot guys randomly appearing in my apartment, I don’t think my roommate would appreciate it. So you should call me before you ever come over.” Stiles says, a mouthful of leather wallet between his teeth as he unhooks his keys. Derek can’t believe it, he’s actually being allowed into the other’s apartment, his safe haven, and they’ve barely known each other an hour.  It is the most ridiculous, if not foolish, thing a person can do.

“I’m not making a habit of this.” Derek mumbles, more to himself as the door swings open with a deafening creak.  If Stiles had heard him, he doesn’t say anything, just skips through the front door and tosses his bag onto the floor.  Stepping forward to follow, he freezes. It’s as if there’s a glass pane in front of him, barring entrance no matter how many times he smacks into it.

“Stiles.”

“Oh, yeah sorry about that, you should be fine now.” Stiles grins slyly “I spent a whole day cutting out bit of the doorframe and replacing them with chunks of mountain ash, painting over that stuff is literally the _hardest_ thing.”

Sure enough the barrier to broken for a brief moment, allowing Derek to quickly hop inside. This is no symbol of trust; it’s a display of power.  A warning; should Derek get any funny ideas then Stiles would be ready, more than prepared to defend himself.  One had to remember, they were dealing with an uncontrollable force, one more feral than werewolf.  Humans are dangerous things.

The apartment is tiny and beyond a doubt occupied by two male students, if that distinctly strong male body odour is anything to go by. The walls are painted a duck egg blue and there’s damp in one corner. There’s a crack in the stained kitchen counter top and dishes piled up by the sink in need of washing.

“Seriously, you ask a guy one thing, _one thing_ , and that somehow slips his mind.” Stiles grumbles, screwing his nose up at the dirty dishes as he fumbles around for a second key.

“You have a lock on your bedroom door?” Derek asks, one eyebrow rising.

“Yeah.” Stiles says likes it totally obvious and Derek is an idiot. Oh he can just tell this kid is going to drive him up the wall. “Welcome to the bat cave young werewolf.”

Stiles’ bedroom is somewhat neatly organized. Derek looks about, evaluating the tidied chaos. The bed is a mess of rumpled sheets, and the shelves are cramped with boxes filled to the brim with objects. It’s narrow with hardly any floor space and a large window which leads onto the fire escape. There’s a complicated mess of wires and speakers on the floor in the corner, a mess which Stiles crouches by, playing about with the dials until there’s a crackling. It takes a moment to realise that the gravelly voices coming through the speakers are connected to the police station.

“I dated one of the constable’s daughters in the first year of college. Let’s just say she was a little too quick to give me a key to her house...and that I know my way around a police station. How did you think I found out about the murders and such?”

It had been a strategic manoeuvre, one based on careful precision and timing. The kid is smart, Derek will admit that, possible a little too smart. 

“Now like all good murder investigators I also have this.” Stiles announces, pulling away curtains pinned up on the bare wall, curtains Derek had assumed where meant to hide cracks or wall mould. Apparently, he is wrong. The wall is a living replica of investigation rooms seen in every hardcore cop movie ever made, with pixelated photos and bits of string connecting the evidence, notes scribbled up neatly in marker pen.

It’s pretty amazing.

“Do you seriously have nothing better to do with you time?” Derek muses aloud, gingerly walking over to the desk and scouring over the contents.

“This isn’t my day job.”

“A totally normal hobby then.” There’s no reply, not that it matters, Derek is too busy going over the variety of weapons just sat in open boxes on Stiles’ desk.  Knives; small with handles that have been repaired a dozen times. Small vials of powders and liquids, and Derek instantly recognizes the wolfbane carving on the side of the box. But the main weapon is the one that has had Derek puzzled ever since that moment in the alley way.

In the centre of the table is a glove, thick, made from padding and tough leather with a complex looking buckle which fastens at the elbow.  The fingers are cased in metal plating which sharpen on the ends to form deadly claws, claws which Derek already knows can deliver serious damage. Picking the glove up carefully, Derek turns it over in his hands, analysing the craftsmanship.

“Where did you get this?”

“Oh that.” Stiles waves a hand dismissively, sorting through a Tupperware box filled with different coloured memory sticks. “I made it” 

“Why?”One has to admit it’s impressive.

“Because I was bored.”

"Because you were bored." Derek repeats slowly, setting the glove back into its box on the desk. Backing away a couple of steps, he glances up at the wall covered in photos and lines of coloured string. It’s totally healthy for college students to be fashioning homemade weaponry to fill the slow hours, it just screams out sanity.

Then again, Derek is hardly one to talk about sanity.

“Right so; let’s go over what we know.” Stiles says, bouncing to his feet with a marker in his hand, going as far as to push Derek down on his bed. He sits with a thump when the back of his calves hit the mattress, feeling oddly like he’s back in school.

“This morning, news of the death of a bus driver came over the speakers. Now it’s likely that he was killed during the early hours of the morning on the return route from Beacon Hills seeing as there were no passengers or witnesses.” Stiles twirls, grapping a piece of paper from the printer tray.

“The crime scene is right on the edge of town and has been sectioned off. I haven’t been able to get into it yet, but I took a drive there this morning as they were pulling the body out, and with any luck, we’ll be able to access it discreetly sometime tonight when the shift changes.”

“Wait” Derek blurts out as Stiles sticks a map to the wall. He hadn’t noticed it before but pinned up in the corner are pictures of Laura’s body, both halves. It makes him want to throw Stiles through a window.

“Oh, yeah, that’s the first murder. I don’t normally deal with the murder to supernatural creatures but my dad seemed worried about it. He doesn’t know I have the location snaps...or the morgue report.”

“Whoever killed her will be an Alpha now.”

“Excuse me?”

Derek blinks, tongue like lead in his mouth.

“She is... _was_ an Alpha werewolf, her killer is also a werewolf, so whoever killed her will have her power.”

“But an Alpha isn’t as strong without a pack, do you know if it has a pack or not?” Stiles asks, scribbling notes on the board, his spine curving in a way that should be sinful.

“Not as far as I know”

“Great so this cloud has a silver lining. As I was saying, if you meet me later on then...”

Derek blanked out for a second, Stiles’ voice turning faint and muffled as he blocks it out. There had been no question, no ‘how do you know this Derek?’ It was an odd show of respect; one Derek is thankful for but knows he would not return. 

Talking about Laura is forbidden, a show of weakness one can’t afford to give.

*

Thanks to having no adept social skills, Derek often finds it hard to get along with people. It has nothing to do with low confidence or self esteem, even before the fire he had barely spoken to the human teenagers at school, preferring the company of werewolf brethren and those who knew about them. Having this huge secret to hide is not easy. During high school, Derek had just been Laura Hale’s easy on the eyes little brother, who just happened to kick ass on the athletics field.

After the fire, this natural wariness of people had grown into full blown distrust. It was easier to remain detached, that way no one could betray him, no one could take anything away. 

With this in mind, Derek is surprised by how easily he slots into Stiles’ life. They only met this morning, but somehow the werewolf has gotten caught in the whirlpool and there is no way to escape. You just kind of get carried along for the ride, seat belt already buckled, chair in default and upright position. There’s no trust involved, just sheer determination and boundless energy.

He’s waiting in the parking lot that night when a bulky jeep pulls up, headlights catching Derek’s face in the bright beam. The engine dies with a chortle and the door is kicked open.  Stiles jumps out the driver’s seat, already dressed in his signature hoody with the scarf around his neck and goggles pushed up. Derek hadn’t noticed before, but the black denim really hugs the shape of Stiles’ thighs and ass, framed by that thick weapons belt which Derek just wants to hook his claws into.

“Be patient wolf man, once I’ve got suited and booted we’ll go check this place out” Stiles says, pulling a baseball bat out of a duffle back and leaning it against the front wheel. Derek hadn’t realized he was growling. Stiles takes a moment, slotting small knives and a packet of mountain ash into his belt, fastening his claw glove on the left hand and a fingerless one on the right.

“Let’s get this show on the road.” Stiles grins as he bounces on his toes, swinging the baseball bat back and forth like a pendulum. It’s close to midnight, and the cops in charge of guarding the crime scene have a shift change, leaving a good five minute window of opportunity.

Stiles is surprisingly fast, scaling a wire fence with no difficulty and crouching low behind a police cruiser.

“They should have already done a forensics test so don’t worry about your fingerprints being picked up...okay do worry about it but the likeliness of them taking a second swab is low.” Stiles whispers, glancing over at Derek who is crouched by his side. “I’ll be right here, although I hate to be the watch dog, this is a job more suited to those with much better touch vision”

Touch vision, sense the Alpha, retrace the steps taken and pick up on any leftover emotion that would make tracking easier. The more contact Derek gets with the presence, the more familiar it will grow.

Dashing across the tarmac, Derek crawls under the yellow tape. The sense of the Alpha hits him like a passing truck as his hand presses down onto the exact same spot as the Alpha had, retreating from the crime scene with a muzzle coated in blood. It makes him flinch, almost toppling back onto his ass from sheer shock.

The bus isn’t anything special, apart from the blood splatters on the window, the hand print smeared on the door. Sliding his hand up the door, Derek pushes, listening to the high pitched creak the door gives as it caves. It jams halfway and it’s a tight squeeze to push his body through. Inside it reeks of blood and fear, the presence of the Alpha tightly enclosing like a suffocating hug.

Blood is streaked down the aisle between the seat from where the body has been dragged backwards, suggesting the prey tried to flee, making it as far as the door if the bloody hand print is anything to go by. Rolling one hand over the torn leather of the bus seats, Derek hears the echo of growls and roars faintly in his ears, the pained cried of frightened human beings.

According to Stiles, the body had been alive when pulled from the wreckage, but died shortly after in hospital, unable to give an account of his attack. That’s surprising, given the pure, uncontainable violence that took place. Derek crouches when he reaches the back seats, the Alpha must have been just shy of ripping the victim’s throat out, blood soaking claws that are embedded in his stomach. But something must have startled him, a potential witness outside perhaps? The smell of another werewolf?

 Wiping the flakes of blood from his fingers, Derek slinks out the bus and back towards the parking lot. The feeling of feral rage follows him, reaching out with wispy fingers to haul him back, to dip into his mouth and infect every nerve in his system. Feral rage is dangerous, uncontrollable, and although anger is an old friend of the Beta, he will not allow it to turn him into a monster.

Sure enough, Stiles is waiting for him, practising his swing with the bat grasped in both hands. The metal of his claw hand keeps catching the dim glow of the headlights which casts a soft outline around his body. The tension in his limbs, the long fingers wrapped perfectly around the black grip, the curve of his calf muscle and shit Derek knows it’s been a while, but he didn’t think he’d ever want something so fast.

“Enjoying the view?” Stiles says, looking over his shoulder with a smirk that says ‘yes, I know you were just staring at my ass’.  Derek growls, flashing his eyes to hope to deter, but Stiles just looks amused.

“It was the Alpha.”

“There’s a surprise, who would have thought a rabid werewolf would kill anyone.” The sarcasm is dull, business like, as if Stiles is already bored with the conversation. “The problem, my pet, is tracking him, and I have the perfect dog to do so.”

Derek growls again, claws extending as he moves to hit Stiles hard. The baseball bat cracks behind his kneecaps, forcing Derek to his knees. It swells instantly. Stiles laughs gleefully, driving his heel into the centre of his spine. Derek catches himself with his hands, palms gashing on the tarmac. Stiles walks around to his front, dragging the baseball bat up the curve of his spine.

Hands fist in Derek hair, pulling his face up to bare his throat. He snaps his jaws, mouth open as his fangs cannot fit inside. Lashing out with one hand, Derek manages to scratch the muscle of Stiles’ thigh, only to have his head slammed down into the tarmac in return.

“I know werewolves like you have a problem when it comes to working with others. Trust me I have the same problem, but what you don’t realise is I’m not afraid of you, I’ve never been afraid of pups trying to be the big bad wolf.”

Stiles’ fingers tightening in his hair, their faces inches apart. Derek knows he can move, has felt himself heal, but he still lies there sprawled out because his limbs are unwilling to obey. Not when Stiles is crouched, one arm lazily draped over his thigh with the cockiest grin on his face.

“However, the only way we will achieve our goal is to work together, and seeing as I’m judge, jury and executioner in these parts, you’ll do well to behave and maybe, if you’re a good boy, I’ll give you a reward. Well, it’ll be more a reward for myself; you see I have a weakness for fine specimens like yourself and I love having them inside me. But I know you want it just as badly so we’re both winners here.”

Transfixed, Derek looses all control for a moment, his wolf howling inside with a mixture of outrage and the overwhelming need to claim. Convinced that Stiles would submit and not challenge his authority if dominated, Derek pushes forward and catches full pinks lips in his. Stiles makes a pleased, if not greedy noise in the back of his throat, pulling his hair so hard it stings.  Sucking on the other’s tongue, Derek curls his hands around Stiles’ thighs, forcing him to kneel instead of crouch. He bites down hard on the other’s bottom lip and blood coats the tip of his tongue.

Wiggling his head, Stiles manages to push Derek back, allowing the Beta wolf a split second to lick the blood dribbling down his chin before standing.  The wolf inside can’t believe it, that a mere human would dare tease and deny him like that, it made him want to howl in frustration.

“Don’t jump the gun Derek, although I must admit I like the way you think.” Stiles says, tongue pushing into the split on his lip, not bothering the wipe the blood off his chin.  Without another word, Stiles climbs into his jeep and pulls away, leaving Derek to sit on the ground, watching until the tail lights disappear.

He does it then, he fucking howls as loud as he can with the taste of blood still warm in his mouth

**/STILES/**

When he was nine years old, Stiles met his first werewolf. They had been living in Beacon Hills for little over two years, after a group of hunters were brutally murders two doors down from where the Stilinski family used to live. His mother was still a hunter, but things are quieter here. She doesn’t have to disappear in the middle of the night; she doesn’t come home with bruises and cuts.

They’re walking in the woods, Stiles hauling his gangly limps through bushes and trying not to stumble on uneven ground. His mother walks at his side, letting him hold her hand. Stiles may only be nine years of age, but he knows how to handle himself, is starting to learn how to use a bow and arrow, knows how to indentify supernatural creatures. He analysis people at school and it feels like he has a superpower.

He had just finished telling his mother about something cool he had learnt in school that day, when there’s a harsh growling coming from bushes nearby. For a second, Stiles’ heart quickens and his grip tightens on his mother’s hand.

“It’s okay Stiles; I said I’ll keep you safe didn’t I?” Stiles trusts her more than anyone, idolizer her more than anyone, and seeing her unafraid makes the young boy puff out his chest, straighten his back and let go of her hand.  She stalks through the bushes, one hand hovering near the slot where her knife is hidden, Stiles trying to mimic the movement as he follows behind.

Tangled in a complex looking trap is a creature. Stiles knows it’s a werewolf, knows by the fangs and flashing yellow eyes, the completely feral growling as it tries to twist out of the trap. The veins on his bare arms are completely black under the skin. His mother steps towards it, making a shushing noise similar to the one she makes whenever Stiles throws a tantrum or has a nightmare. The werewolf’s yellow eyes flick between the two of them, and Stiles flinches back when he notices the smell that’s sour and stomach retching, like death itself.  It makes his throat constrict and gag.

“He’s been poisoned with wolfbane, do you remember what wolfbane is Stiles?”

He nods.

“It’ll take days for him to die like this.” She shakes her head in pity, unsheathing the knife at her hip. In one fluid motion, she pulls the creature’s head back and cuts it’s throat, blood pouring out the second smile like a waterfall. It stills instantly, only twitching now and again as its eyes turn dull.

“It’s not right to let them suffer like that.” She says bitterly, rising to her feet and taking Stiles by the hand. “When you’re older little warrior, you must remember two things. Keep to the code, and deliver death as swift as possible. No one has the right to let other’s suffer.”

If there’s one thing he remembers, it’s to make death swift, even if he tends to keep to his own code nowadays.

*

Five years later, when Stiles is fourteen, his mother dies. She’d been suffering with breast cancer for a year now, but the tumour was not the thing that killed her. There had been disturbances in the neighbouring city, and the hunters who lived there sent out a call for back up.

Stiles had gone round to Scott’s that night, as is customary when both his parents are working. It doesn’t make much difference seeing as Scott’s mother isn’t about either, having to work extra hours after the divorce two months ago. However playing videogames into the early hours is always more fun with company.

When his dad comes round the next day to pick Stiles up, his eyes are red and puffy and he grips Stiles so hard it almost hurts. Instead of going home, they end up going to the hospital. Stiles slouches in the plastic chairs, feeling confused because no one will tell him anything, long legs kicking the armrest of the chair next to him. He sees Scott’s mom pass now and again, but she’s flustered and rushing and doesn’t notice him. 

Eventually Stiles’ dad drags him off to the cafeteria, buys him a hot chocolate and jelly from the counter, which is an unusual act in itself. In fact, it made Stiles feel more scared than anything. His dad gets coffee from the machine and they sit in silence for a moment. The cafeteria is an empty, lonely place, with the humming of vending machine and a banner saying ‘ _Everything Will Be Alright’_ over the door.

With one shaky intake, his dad finally takes the plunge and tells the young teen what happened. Suicide, apparently the pain from cancer and dying slowly was too much to take. It didn’t seem right, no Stiles’ mother was strong, a fighter, the fiercest idol Stiles had known. He takes it upon himself to inform his father of this, blinking back tears that sting, hands gripping the edge of the table with white knuckles. One hand pinches the skin of his thigh so hard his nails force shallow pools of blood to the surface.

Some people say they feel hollow in situations such as this, like every feeling they have is drained from them and they are nothing more than an empty chalice. Not Stiles, he’s a mess of sadness and simmering fury. A panic attack hits almost instantly, because he doesn’t know what he’s going to do, doesn’t know how to cope with the sudden whirlwind of emotion. It worries his father, who looks on uncertain as Stiles slams his face down onto the plastic table, hands braced over his head as oxygen wheezes in and out of starved lungs.  His heart is beating painfully, trying to smash his rib cage and getting bits of bone stuck in meaty muscle.

 One of the nurses on break comes over to him, hand rubbing circles through the soft fabric of his clammy hoody, telling him to take deep and slow breaths.  His dad looks just shy of petrified when Stiles eventually lifts his head from the table, feeling exhausted and boneless, fingers shaking violently.

He falls asleep in the car on the journey back, breath fogging up the wet window pane. The house remains in a state of shocked silence for days, Stiles doesn’t go to school for a week, just lies in his bedroom without saying a word. His father doesn’t mind, just comes in to check on him, give him food and water with his sad look in his eyes. He sits on the side of the bed, one hand smoothing over Stiles’ buzzed hair without stirring any reaction.  It’s like the world has just stopped spinning.

Four days after the funeral, Stiles’ dad pulls him to the side again. He explains that it was not suicide that killed his mother, but one of the rouge werewolves she had gone to help that night. The anger is uncontrollable, channelled into brain frying panic attacks and overzealous studying.

Then, when he’s sixteen, Stiles meets Chris Argent, and the anger suddenly has a purpose.

*

“Nice to know you actually listened to my rules.” Stiles says when he answers the buzzer to hear Derek’s voice on the other end.

“Will you just let me up?”

“And what will you do if I said no? I could have a hot date in here for all you know.”

“Stiles.”

“Fine, I don’t know why I bother with you, you’re no fun.” Cutting off the call, Stiles pressed the lock of the building to let Derek inside. He’ll still have to knock in order to get into the apartment though, Stiles is stupid enough to just let the werewolf walk straight in.

“Who the hell was that?” Scott asks looking up from the laptop screen. Stiles waves a hand, strolling into his bedroom to grab a pair of jeans.

“Just some guy who’s desperately trying to wriggle his way into my underwear.” There’s no point in lying....well not completely lying.  Scott’s eyebrows shoot into his hair.

“Relax, I’m not that easy, he can wait a little longer.”

“Dude seriously? Just make sure I’m not around when you do, there are certain things that should remain outside of our friendship.” Scott says, ending the conversation abruptly when there’s a knock on the door. 

“Am I going to have to witness you flirting?” Scott asks as if it’s an important life or death question when Stiles is half way to the door.

“I’ll have you know I’m great at flirting, you should be taking lessons from me.” With that he opens the door, shirtless and leaning against the door frame. Derek looks particularly sour today, his frown deepening as his eyes quickly travel down to the waistband of Stiles’ jeans. Perfect, it really is perfect to have a Beta werewolf wanting him so much, getting so frustrated every time he teases yet denies.

If there’s anything Stiles knows, it’s how to drive a werewolf crazy.

“Hey handsome, shame you didn’t call me.” Scott gives an exasperated sigh from the couch. Derek sneers at him, unimpressed and already pissed off. It’s amusing really. Moving aside with a flourish, Stiles allows Derek to walk though the threshold, getting a good eyeful of his ass as he passes.

“That is my roommate.”

“Yo” Scott waves a hand, glancing over at Stiles with an odd look in this eyes. Derek doesn’t look much better, glaring at Stiles like he’s a stranger. Cocking his head, Stiles smirks. Yes he can play the average, dorky college student as well as any sucker can.

They move into the bedroom quickly because Derek wouldn’t visit if it wasn’t for their little investigation.

“There’s been another attack.” Derek says, back flat against the wall as Stiles fishes around for a shirt. He can practically feel Derek trying to eat him with his eyes alone.  That’s the problem with morning classes, no one is about to man the radio, he’s lost count of all the information that’s been lost due to life getting in the way.

“At a video shop downtown. An electrician had his throat ripped out, apparently there was one witness”

“And you know this how?” Derek smirks.

“I have friends who know things.” Turning sharply on one heel, Stiles gasps, one hand curving over his heart.

“Derek Hale has friends?” The werewolf does not look impressed; in fact that scowl is so deep the crease between his eyebrows could probably carry water. It’s strangely sweet the way the Beta sulks like that.

“Oh don’t be such a sour wolf.” Delivering a half hearted double tap to Derek’s cheek, Stiles flounces past, grabbing his duffle bag and whistling tunelessly. “Come now, I believe we have a witness to terrorize.”

*

Terrorizing said witness is easier than expected.  There’s no asking how Derek got this information, it probably involved slamming a rookie police officer against a dirty wall, frightening the living daylights out of the poor sucker on his first time job until he bled out the name. Oh the name, Stiles has never been so please, had never thought he’d get so darn lucky all of a sudden. 

“Let’s make this easy shall we Jackson. You tell us what you saw and everyone can go home happy.”

Jackson fucking Whittemore. Ha, Stiles wants to double over laughing. Who would have thought, that one day, he’d have one of the boys who made his high school life hell tied to a radiator using zip ties.

“If you don’t, then if you’re lucky I’ll let my friend here deal with you until you spill. And I say lucky, because if you make _me_ mad, then I’ll smash that pretty little face of yours so hard you won’t be recognized, which would be such a loss for humanity.”

A part of him really hoped Jackson wouldn’t cooperate, just for an excuse to spill blood from those perfect veins of his. Fuck he wouldn’t be surprised if they bled blue from all the royal treatment Jackson used to get.

“I didn’t see anything, just let me go and I promise I won’t call the cops.” Jackson grinds out, yanking so hard on the zip ties that the plastic starts to bite into his wrists, knuckles cracking back against the thick metal heater. Calling the cops would be great, Stiles hadn’t been foolish enough to give his identify away, not when Jackson would recognise him without the gear covering his face. Derek is lurking in the shadows, had been sitting in a chair ever since Stiles knocked Jackson out with a bash to the head.

That had been great, watching the blood dribble from the bruised and shallow split in his temple, it’s intoxicated. For a moment, when Jackson had been lying there unconscious, Stiles wanted to lick away that trail of crimson, knowing it would make the sharp tempered werewolf in the corner all hot and bothered. Making Derek get shifty is fast becoming a new favourite pass time.

“C’mon Jackson, you got trapped under some fucking shelves, do you really think we’re going to believe you when you say you didn’t see anything?”  Stiles pulls up a chair, sitting down with his legs spread, baseball bat tapping the floor between his feet.  Jackson’s wide and petrified eyes watch the movement.

“You wouldn’t believe me even if I did tell you.” Jackson huffs, snapping back into his above all status within seconds. It makes Stiles’ eyes roll behind the goggles. 

“Trust me; there is nothing you can say that we won’t believe, no matter how strange.” As if on cue, out of the corner of his eye Stiles sees the striking blue glow of Derek’s werewolf eyes, the tips of his fangs catching in the dim moonlight shining through the open window. The full moon is a few days away, yet the clear cloudless night makes it seem brighter. 

Jackson’s feet kick on the floor as he tries to merge in with the radiator.

“Okay okay, I didn’t see much of it but...but it was big and black, and it had these red eyes and walked on all fours and...”

He seemed on the edge of having a nervous breakdown, or telling Stiles to go fuck himself and spit in his face. Not that it mattered; they had the information they needed. Kicking away the chair, Stiles flicks open a Swiss army knife and goes to squat at Jackson’s side.

“Thank you so much for your cooperation Mr Whittemore, you’ve been most helpful.” Sliding the blade carefully between the ties and skin, Stiles cuts the tight plastic, leaving Jackson behind to rub his wrists and probably have nightmares for the rest of his life.

**/DEREK/**

“I’m hungry; you want to get something to eat?” Stiles says as soon as they exist Jackson Whittemore’s college dorm building. It’s as if he hadn’t just broken into someone’s home, tied them to a radiator and threatened to beat them senseless. Derek isn’t even sure where exactly Stiles had gotten those zip ties from and well, he didn’t want to ask.

“You know I should do that more often, kick the asses of the old lacrosse team I mean. Can you imagine the look on their faces when they see that Stiles Stilinski, the bench warmer, just beat them to a pulp? It would be humiliating. Well, I’d do it to everyone but Danny...Danny and Isaac, they were nice people.”  The glee is poorly contained.

 “You’re insane.” Derek spits out. They’ve stop just outside of campus so Stiles can take off his gear and hide his weapons away in the bag, leaving him in just jeans and a t-shirt. The shrug is dismissive.

“An unfortunate side affect I’m sure.”   Stiles is walking backwards along the street, hands in his pockets and waggling his eyebrows at Derek like he’s the hottest shit on earth. This, according to the wolf inside, is true. Seeing the spark of insanity lurking in the dark rings of those honey irises is doing nothing to tame the need for submission. 

Suddenly Stiles’ foot hits an uplifted paving stone, arms flailing for a moment as he starts to topple backward. Without thinking first, Derek lashes one hand out, fingers wrapping around his slender wrist and pulling in an instant. For the first time, Derek looks down at where his fingers are and sees  a tiny, black spiral , no bigger than a thumb print, tattooed to the inside of Stiles’ wrist.

Intrigued, he glances over at the other wrist and sees another, equally as tiny black cross tattooed in the exact same place.

They break apart, Stiles walking a couple of paces in front as Derek trails behind, both with hands inside their pockets. They don’t speak again until Stiles veers off into the nearest McDonalds, forcing Derek to roll his eyes as they step inside. As if his night couldn’t get worse, he has to get drowned in the smell of grease and sweating meat and self loathing.

“Do you know why I do it? Kill supernatural creatures I mean.” Stiles says almost absent minded as they sit down in one of the booths, the teen ripping into the little cardboard box and sucking mayonnaise off his thumb.

“No.” Derek huffs, looking distastefully at the burger Stiles ordered for him. There is no way he’s shoving that into his mouth. Instead he picks gingerly at his fries, feeling oddly cheap and dirty. No wonder everyone in these establishments hate themselves.

“My mom was killed by a werewolf she was trying to help. I needed to channel all that anger into something, so a year and a half ago, when I started college, I started hunting down supernatural creatures that killed humans. It gives peace you know, avenging families who have suffered loss even if they’re totally unaware I’m doing it.  It’s like balancing out the scales if you get what I mean.”

No, it’s not like balancing out the scales. It is killing with the slim hope that the creature he kills just happens to be the one who killed his mother. Derek can see that, knows enough about loss to see it simmering below the surface. Vengeance does ugly things to people.

Hunters killed Derek’s family, and if he didn’t already know who it was who killed them, then he might even do the same. Kill every hunter that hurt one of his own until there was peace. The only problem is, there never would be peace, just more and more anger increasing with each torn out throat. 

“I know what you’re thinking, and don’t worry, you’ll get your chance for vengeance one day.” Stiles says after swallowing, the look in his eyes unreadable. Derek tenses, eyes narrowing  with one hand itching to reach out and grab the other by the throat.

“What do you know about that?” He growls, barely controlled anger boiling under his skin.

“I lived in Beacon Hills for ten years, I knew who you were the moment you said your name. We’re too similar, you and I. I know you want to kill those who have taken everything as badly as myself. That’s why you’re hunting the Alpha; he killed your sister after all.” 

Derek doesn’t know what to do, he wants to hurt the teen, make him scream for being so flippant about the issue. But he can’t bring himself to move, just sits there frozen and dumbfound, feeling lost and insecure for the first time in months.

“See” Stiles smirks, biting the end off one salty fry “I’m not just a pretty face”

*

Nothing happens for a few days. Derek get’s a call from Stiles on Saturday evening, the boy over excitedly telling him that two bodies had been found in Beacon Hills Reserve, one mangled around a tree and the other burnt to a crisp. The autopsy revealed they had been dead for at least three days, so it was too late to investigate properly, but apparently large unidentified prints had been found in the mud around the scene. 

When asked how the hell he got the information, Stiles guiltily admitted it involved half a bottle of Jack and some sweet talking. Now convinced that he’s going to a special ring in hell for it, Stiles hung up before Derek could get a word in edgeways.

On Monday however, things take a turn when the janitor of a nearby high school is brutally murdered during a football game.  The school was to be closed for a couple of days and several students and teacher had been called into questioning to no avail.

“I can’t believe we’re doing this.” Derek sighs, watching Stiles crouch down in front of the locked doors, wiggling his knife in the seam between the doorframe and lock. It’s almost 11pm and they’re stood by one of the back entrances to the closed off school with the sole purpose of breaking in. It is by far the most ridiculous thing they’ve ever done.

“Oh I’m sorry, don’t you want to track this Alpha?” And here it is, the bitter sarcasm Stiles is accustomed to whenever Derek has something to say. “You know, this is for your benefit. I suggested to call for this Alpha, but oh no, someone didn’t want all the werewolves in the State to come looking for his furry ass, no sir. So instead, this is what we’re reduced to okay, we-”

Letting out a growl of frustration, Derek kicks the locked doors, fed up with Stiles’ constant rattling. The doors bang open, slamming against the wall with one hanging on for dear life by a hinge. The wood has caved and splintered in the centre from the force.

Stiles looks up at him from his crouched position on the floor, knife still in hand.

“After you.” Derek sneers, gesturing to the open doorway with both hands.

“So much for being subtle.” Stiles mutters, sheathing the knife and strolling through the entrance, baseball bat swinging from his hip.

  1. Every footstep echoes through the empty hallways, filled with the lingering smell of teenage sweat and wild hormones. High schools are horrible places; they smell too strongly of every bitter scent going, it’s enough to make one vomit. 



“Wait.” Derek hisses, one hand flying out to press against Stiles’ chest, stopping any movement. The smell of the Alpha is everywhere, feral and smoky and vile with bitter rage. But above the sound of Stiles’ steady heartbeat, Derek can hear the sharp sound of claws sliding over the flooring, the grunting hiss of breath curling from a muzzle.

“He’s here, the Alpha’s still here.”

“Oh you’re fucking kidding me.” Stiles sighs, scratching his nails over the back of his neck. They slide past lockers, Stiles gripping his bat in one hand, Derek tracking the movements of the Alpha. He knows that the Alpha has sensed them both, was probably able to sense Derek’s presence from miles away. Lone Alphas are always able to track down wolves without a pack. The sound is coming towards them, fast approaching, charging like a forest fire.

“Shit.” Derek hisses, grabbing Stiles by the scruff and hauling him into the nearest room, slamming the door shut behind him. Flinging Stiles to the other side of the room, Derek presses his ear against the wooden door.

“What the fuck?”

“Let me handle this.” Is the sharply delivered demand in response to Stiles’ outraged cursing.

“Seriously, that isn’t how this partnership works.”

“Will you just shut up and let me handle this? I’m a werewolf, you’re not, who do you think will do better in this situation?” Stiles rolls his eyes, shifting his weight onto one leg which only serves to anger Derek further. He really wants to slam one of the plastic chairs into that stupid defensive pout.

“Fine, if it pleases your ego then go ahead.” Not waiting any longer to hear whatever sarcastic resort will follow, Derek opens the door and slithers out.

Slinking through the dark hallways, Derek follows the scent, the whispering call of the Alpha scratching his inner wolf behind the ears. He’s halfway to the gymnasium when he finally sees it; the Alpha, huge and black with burning red eyes skewering Derek’s gut. His inner wolf whines, caught between outrage and the dire need to roll over and submit. Every wolf wants an Alpha, and here’s one just begging him to join a pack. 

But those red eyes, they’re Laura’s  eye ,the same flashing light she used when she demanded Derek to stay behind in New York shortly before she disappeared. Shortly before she was murdered. 

Roaring in pure anger, Derek shifts, baring his fangs and runs at the Alpha. Bounding off one of the walls, Derek dives, claws sinking into the shoulder muscles.  Rearing up onto two legs, the Alpha gives out a pained howl, jerking roughly and sending Derek sliding across the floor. One large claw slashes through the air, striking Derek on the side of the face. Claws tear open his ear, the force sending Derek crashing into the lockers. He manages to roll out the way when they come clattering down, metal thundering onto the titles.

Grabbing one of the locker doors, Derek uses it as a shield, flinching backwards as the Alpha swipes at him, sparks flying off the metal as long white marks are left behind. Swinging upwards, the metal lip catches the underside of the Alpha’s jaw making him stagger back in surprise. Dropping the door, Derek turns, using the momentum to deliver a round house kick to the werewolf’s muzzle.

Blood spits out onto the floor. Derek snarls unaware that there’s bone jutting out his knuckles, and that there’s blood running down the side of his face, matting in his eyebrow along with sweat.  Furious with the defiance, the Alpha snarls back, lunging forward to drive his claws into Derek’s abdominal. The pain is excruciating as claws rip the muscle apart, severing the blood vessels as they curve upwards into his organs. Blood bubbles in his throat, pouring over his bottom lip and down his neck.  

He crumples to the floor when the claws withdraw, crying out and writhing as his blood seeps onto the floor. He can feel the lining of his stomach knitting back together, blood clotting as veins try to weave together. It’s slow and Derek feel light headed, dizzy and on the verge of throwing up, every limb too weak to move.

The Alpha looms over him on all fours, inches between their bodies with blasts of stale, sour breath striking Derek in the face. Huge fangs curve out of its jaws, saliva threading between the teeth tips and drooling from the corners of its mouth like a savage dog. It’s sick and Derek tries to cower, his wolf batting down its ears with its tail between its legs. Submission is singing in his veins, forcing him to bare the tense column of his pale throat.

Suddenly there’s a high pitch squeal of pain and the Alpha rears backwards, staggering a moment before collapsing onto the floor, a knife jutting out the base of its neck. Hands are curling under Derek’s arms, hauling his dead weight back across the tiles.

“For fucks sake get up Derek” Stiles is shouting at him, pulling Derek up onto weak feet. He sways for a moment, veering towards the wall and slumping, one hand curving around the still gaping punctures in his stomach. There’s a growling behind him, harsh and grating and Stiles is grabbing him again.

“Okay we have to run, fucking hell Derek we have to run _now_.”   Slinging one arm around his shoulders, Stiles pulls Derek along with him as he pelts down the hallway, bearing half the werewolf’s weight as his feet skid every other foot step. 

“Let me handle it, he said, I’ll do better in this situation, he said. Bullshit.” Stiles mumbles under his breath, dragging Derek through a push lock door and down a fire escape. The Alpha is roaring, thundering after them down the corridor and Derek is unsure how they’re going to escape him.  Slamming into the second door, the pair tumbles out onto the grass of the football field, scrabbling into the dust behind the bleachers.

Derek hisses, breathing shallow to reduce the sound. He can hear Stiles’ heart pumping, adrenaline surging through his veins. There’s blood on his fingers from stabbing an Alpha werewolf through the neck.

“I think...I think he’s gone.” Derek breathes, finally relaxing into the dirt as he cannot hear a sound. Stiles lets out a breathy laugh, then a bark before hitting Derek round the head with his fist for no particular reason.

“We were not prepared for that at all.” Laughing, Stiles falls back into the dirt, arms and legs spread wide as he takes off his scarf and goggles.

“No, but we will be”

For a brief, slow moment, the thing between them feels oddly like friendship. A shattered glass, twisted version of friendship, filled with blood and pain, but it’s undeniable. Stiles could have ran off, left Derek to be devoured by the Alpha, but the brave little human had risked himself to save him. For a moment, Derek is unsure if he would return the favour.




Stiles wiggles his hips to get comfortable, eyes closed with a small sigh of content, perfectly happy to lie there under the bleachers. The full moon makes it harder for Derek not to just flip the teen over and fuck him raw, not when he’s there all sprawled out and ready for the taking.

There’s a sharp clicking sound in Derek’s ears, and suddenly a bright flare of light bursts in his vision. Instinctively, Derek dives onto Stiles, shielding the weaker body from any threat. His vision is blurred and shifting. Blinking hard Derek see’s the bare skin of Stiles’ neck, mere centimetres away from his teeth. It’s mesmerizing, seeing the slight beat of Stiles’ heart under the pulse point, smelling the sweat that has dried there.

“Get off! Get off!” Stiles is shouting, legs kicking and writhing under Derek’s body. Too distracted, Derek lurches backward when an arrow strikes him in the shoulder. Shoving Derek backwards, Stiles grabs him by the arms and twists, snapping the thin length of the arrow with both hands before scrabbling to his feet. 

“Hunters.” Derek growls out, pulling the arrow out and running to catch up with Stiles.

“Wait, wait, grab the bag!” Stiles flails, slowing in his stride for a brief second.

“Leave it”

“Just fucking grab it.” Huffing in frustration, Derek swerves, hooking the bag straps in his fingers and pelting after Stiles.

“Careful with that, there’s some very flammable chemical inside which I don’t have a back up for.”

“What the-” There’s no time to question it though, because another arrow whizzes through the air, landing just shy of Derek’s foot.  They fly across the football field, dodging the gun fire like soldiers running across no man’s land.

“Wait, why are you running? You’re a hunter right?”

“Yeah, but let’s just say the Argents aren’t very fond of me right now.” Stiles pants, flinging himself against the mesh of the wire fencing and hauling himself up, goggles and scarf swinging around his neck. His jeans rip on the barbwire as he drops over the other side.  Derek lands shortly after, hooking his hand in Stiles’ hood when the boy stumbles and dragging him along as they run through the back streets.

They both know that the hunters will have them circled, wanted to not only catch the Alpha, but a lone Beta wolf and a rouge hunter from their ranks. Derek can smell the wolfbane before he even sees the spare hunters. Yanking harshly on Stiles’ hood, he pulls the two of them into a side ally, ducks into the nearest empty doorway and hauls the teen after him.

For a moment, neither of them are breathing, Derek’s hands still fisted in red fabric with Stiles’ breath sharp against his mouth as he pants. The duffle bag lowers slowly to the ground, glass bottles clinking inside as they meet the paving stones.

“Great, I’m going to have to buy a new pair.” Stiles grumbles looking down at the torn palm of his fingerless glove, his hand gashed and speckled. Mind feeling both hazy and frantic, Derek wraps his fingers around the hand, bringing it upwards to lick the blood out of the gashes.  Human canines dig into the heel of his hand, tongue darting out under the torn leather to taste the sweat there.

This time when they kiss it isn’t out of rage. Pushing Stiles’ up against the door frame, Derek wraps his arms around the slender waist, hands sliding up the back of his shirt to smooth over hot flesh. Stiles moans unashamed, biting down hard on Derek’s tongue. In return, Derek scratches his claws into the muscle swelling above the waist band of his jeans.

“You really can’t help yourself.” Stiles laughs, nails biting into the werewolf’s nape when Derek ducks to suck mean hickeys into the other’s neck.  “Am I really that irresistible?”

It’s not a question, not really.

“Oh you really want it; you want a nice hard fuck with yours truly.”

One hand is sliding down the werewolf’s flank, dancing along the buckle of his belt. Growling, Derek jams his leg between Stiles’, forcing the teen to ride his thigh.

“Have you thought about it Derek? Thought about what it would be like with me? I’ve already thought about it too many times when I’m on my own, so I bet you have.”

The idea of Stiles all hot and bothered, thinking about what it’d be like to have Derek fuck him sends a hot flare rocketing down his spine and straight to his crotch. Shit he can believe he’s already that hard. He blames it on the full moon. 

Stiles has this stupid, self righteous smirk on his face as he stuffs his hand down the front of Derek’s jeans, cupping him through the fabric of his underwear and rubbing in small circles. Grunting, Derek shoves hard at Stiles, rocking forward into the warmth of his palm, perfectly content to rut right here in a doorway.

“Unfortunately, as much as I hate to even deny myself, those thought are all you’re going to get for the time being.” Stiles whispers, tongue flicking out over the shell of Derek’s ear as he starts pulling his hand out. Growling and showing his teeth in warning, Derek holds Stiles’ wrist in place, stopping his hand from moving any further. There is no way the human will tease him this time, not like this.

“Ah, ah, I’d be careful with that hot stuff.” Stiles purrs, smile crocked. The sharp pressure of metal claws dig into the soft flesh under Derek’s jaws, forcing his head back. “Our partnership is yet to run its course and there’s no point in granting reward when it is yet to be earned. Now, you’re going to let me go, or I’ll puncture four little holes into your chiselled jaw and leave you here.”

To drive the point home, Stiles pushes one finger up, cutting into the flesh and making blood start to ooze sluggishly from the slit. Teeth still bared, Derek loosens his hold and allows Stiles to withdraw.

“There’s a good boy.” Stiles smiles, licking up the muscle of Derek’s tense neck before flouncing away, carrying a bag of chemical over one shoulder.

**/STILES/**

There’s an essay needing to be written for his history class, an essay which is due in two days and not a single word has been typed.  Despite being a hunter and part time Alpha trackers, there’s is still college work to be done, work which is because increasingly difficult to do. However, Stiles has always been good at working under pressure, and having been a trained hunter since the age of sixteen, he has plenty of experience doing so.

However, essay writing is the last thing on one’s mind when Scott burst through the front door that Friday evening.

“So Allison just had this awesome idea.” He announces, flying through the living room and into his own bedroom. Resisting the urge to sigh, Stiles twists to look over the sofa back, watching as Scott changes his shirt with the bedroom door wide open.

“I’m riveted, please tell me more.”

“Well it’s Friday night and we haven’t gone out in a while, so we thought we could try out those fake IDs we got in that new club down town.” There’s a bang as Scott opens the top draw of the dresser to grab some money and ID card.

“Do you want to come?”

“Thought you were never going to ask.” Closing the laptop, Stiles rises to his feet and grabs some shoes from the corner of the room. There’s money in his wallet, tucked safely into the back pocket of his jeans.  They hadn’t gone to a bar in months, not since things between Scott and Allison got serious, and Stiles turned into the third wheel. But everything has been hectic lately, so going out to unwind and drink sounds all too appealing.

The bar they go to is new and heaving with people attending its first Friday night since opening. Inside the bar is decorated with varying shades of green with strobe lighting going across the ceiling. The booths are tiny, closed in circles with comfy leather seats and a small oval table.

“So what are we toasting to?” Allison asks with a toothy smile, lifting a shot glass in her slender fingers. Stiles has to admit it, she is beautiful  with dark hair curling slightly around her face and charcoal coloured eye shadow smudging her eye lids. Scott definitely pulled some kind of miracle out the bag with this one.

“To the dire, yet slim hope that I get laid tonight.” Playing the comic relief has always been an easy trait, and his two best friends laugh and clink the tiny glasses together. Stiles doesn’t need to think about how damn close he is to making a sexually frustrated werewolf lose all control. There’s also no need to think about the long scratches fading on his back, stinging deliciously when Stiles had first pressed into them after returning home that night.

Compared to the nights spent indulging in violence, tonight is a bit of a drag. Allison and Scott are attached to one another which is hardly a surprise, and there’s no one in the bar who really catches his eye. After looking at Derek Hale for too long, everyone else seems a little tasteless, and why settle for the coffee dregs when you can easily have the cream.

“Aren’t you a little under aged to be here?” Stiles smirks. He’s ended up having to stand in one of the quiet corners as their booth got stolen, neatly tucked away from the strobe lights and smoke machine.

“Kate, it’s been a while. How’s Chris, does he miss me?” Kate Argent is leant against the wall at his side, blonde hair bouncy with a smile that has always been wicked.

“He was pretty pissed off when you took off without a word with half his equipment, but hey, I told him not to trust you so much.” Kate shrugs looking at Stiles like he’ll make a great next meal.

“Not just a pretty face, are you Kate.” In the past, Stiles’ interactions with the Argents had been limited.  It was only really Chris and Victoria he ever spoke to and saw on a regular basis. Kate would pop up now and again whenever she was in town, but generally they tended to stay away from one another. Sometimes, you just meet people and know instantly that it’s best to keep away from them.

“I know why you ran off, we all do.” She turns, cupping his chin in one hand and squishing his cheeks together like a patronizing grandmother.  If Stiles had ever wanted to spit at someone it would be now.  “You’ve always been mommy’s little boy, everyone in that horrible town knew that her death really sent you off the rails. Does it feel better, doing it your way? Are you stronger this way?”

“I’ve still got my crossbow at home, why don’t I grab it and show you?” Stiles growls, fingers twitching at his side. Kate laughs, throwing her head back and sliding her grip down to curl around Stiles’ neck, squeezing lightly.

“You’ve always been fun Stiles. I’ve always liked you for it, especially when Chris can be such a stick in the mud. But what you fail to see is there’s no point playing the avenger, like the heroes in the comic books you read.  You, Stiles, are far from being a hero and creatures like Derek Hale will always turn on you eventually, they’re better off dead from the start.” 

Stiles narrows his eyes as Kate’s nails press into the almost faded hickey just under the collar of his shirt. 

“Oh honey don’t narrow those adorable eyes at me. We know it was you at the school with Derek, we also know you’re hunting the Alpha. My suggestion is, why don’t you stop trying to play the lone wolf and come to work with us again. You’ll get the Alpha, and we’ll get Derek.”

Knocking her arm aside, Stiles’ flips them over, wrapping his hand much tighter around Kate’s neck and jamming his thumb into a pressure point. He ignored the sick look of joy in her eyes and squeezed tighter.

“If anyone is going to lay a finger Derek Hale, it’s going to be me.” Ownership is not the same as affection. Ownership is the hard cold display of power, and let’s just say Stiles doesn’t take kindly to those trying to play in his sandbox.  Stiles owns Derek, even if the werewolf is yet to realize.  Kate smiles at him, one hand curling around his wrist.

“Easy there kid, don’t want to attract any unwanted attention.” He knew what she would do, if anyone asked she’d scream and tell them that Stiles was trying to make an unwanted move on her, placing him in a rather sticky situation. Releasing the hold, Stiles steps back, not daring to look away just in case. Clicking the neck joints, Kate slides past him, passing a set of nails over his chest.

“See you around Stilinski; say hi to your pet for me.”

 *

To say the least, Stiles is a little surprised when he receives a text from Derek during the cab ride home. Stiles had paid, not nearly as drunk as Scott and Allison who are making out right next to him, having been put off his drink after Kate made an appearance. It’s disappointing really. Trust Argent to ruin a fun night out.

This is how he ends up standing in the middle of a park at 2 in the morning, armed and cautious as he trudges past a swing set and into the large field over the low metal fence. The gate shrieks in protest as it’s pushed open, metal cold and slick with settling dew.  The ground is soft, squishy from the reminiscence of rain that poured earlier that day soaked deep into the soil.  The full moon has been and passed, meaning the only light source is the far away glow of orange street lights, and the bright screen of Stiles’ phone. Trust a werewolf to schedule a meeting when it’s pitch black outside. It’s almost too much of a cliché.

“I know you’re a creature of the night and all, but this is taking it to the extreme don’t you think.” Stiles snarks when he eventually comes across Derek stood right in the middle of the field, pocketing his phone. The werewolf says nothing, just looks on with a blank expression, totally unmoving.  

“He’s a fierce one; I’ll give you that Derek.” Swivelling on one foot, Stiles turns abruptly to face the man who walks behind him, bat already unhooked from his belt.  The new comer is older, lean, hiding his body under a long leather trench coat that looks like it belongs in the costume department for Underworld. Long fingers are laced together and he’s evaluating Stiles with a sharp gaze.

“You’re the Alpha.” Stiles says more to himself, stance shifting so it’s ready for an attack. The Alpha looks impressed at the quick deducing.

“Smart too, although intelligence paired with violence is very refreshing, it’s also dangerous.” There’s a twitch of the head and before Stiles can even react, strong arms are wrapping around him, legs being knocked out and forcing the young hunter into the grass, arms locked painful behind his back. The baseball bat has been dropped, lying in the grass a few feet away.

Derek is on top, holding Stiles to the ground with superior strength, claws threatening to slash his wrists open.

“You can’t be serious? Derek he killed your sister, or have you conveniently forgotten that? ” Dirt smears his face as he’s forced further into the ground.

“It was a mistake, it happens.” Is the steady, punctuated reply. There’s sense of betrayal, but really, he knew not to trust the werewolf, knew that to trust them was to dig your own grave.  It is hardly surprising; a lone wolf will always bow to an Alpha, its pure instinct and the only way to destroy the loneliness.

“Really, I must thank you for this Stiles.” The Alpha says crouching down to look at the human’s scrunched up face. The pain is shooting through his twists joints, the heavy weight of a Beta wolf making it hard to breathe. There’s no point wasting the energy trying to writhe free.

“If it wasn’t for you, I would have never been able to track Derek down, not when he’s so good at hiding.”  One claw trials from Stiles’ temple down to his chin, nicking the skin so small beads of blood bloom to the surface. The Alpha looks almost tender under the calculating gaze.

“Now you see, being a recently formed Alpha, I’m ashamed to say that I need a little help from others. Having a pack makes me stronger. I could use someone like you Stiles, someone with an intelligent violent streak.  The bite wouldn’t kill you; no you’re strong enough to take it.”

Suddenly the weight is gone and Derek let’s him rise to aching limps at the silent command of the Alpha. Rubbing his wrist, Stiles tenses and relaxes his quadriceps.

“What do you say?”

“I don’t want to be a monster like you.” Stiles spits.

“Oh but Stiles, you already are a monster like me.”  The Alpha says, almost fondly.

“Yeah? Well I guess you’ll have fun catching me then.” Not sparing a moment to pick up his bat, Stiles runs, feet pounding against the slippery grass.  He curses himself for leaving half his weapons attire at home , not thinking he’d need it from some peculiar reason.  The Alpha will not fight him, not when he’s still too weak, instead he’ll send Derek.

Grabbing a knife, Stiles jumps over the low metal fencing, feet sending sprays of wood chips into the air. Derek catches up fast, knocking Stiles to the ground with one strong hit to the flank. Rolling with the momentum, Stiles flips over onto all fours, one hand curling around the bleeding wound in his side. The pain burns deep.

His movements are jarred, less nimble as Stiles dodges the hits that come, trying not to fall over his own feet in the process. Receiving a hit to the knee almost sends him to the ground again, but Stiles’ catches himself on the splintering rungs of a wooden climbing frame. Twisting the knife handle in weak fingers, Stiles adjusts the grip and drives it hard into Derek’s shoulder. There’s no waiting to hear the grunt of pain.  Adrenaline is the only thing that numbs the pain, giving Stiles enough energy to run as fast as he can.

No one is following him when Stiles stumbles to a halt outside a closed down book shop, the windows boarded up with a ‘for let’ sign stapled to the front door. Leaning heavily against the cool glass, Stiles peels his hand away from his side and looks down. It isn’t bleeding too heavily, but it has covered his palm and stained his clothes again. Pulling off his hoody, Stiles pressed the balled up fabric against the wound, hoping to slow the bleeding to a stop. The side of his face stings and there’s dirt and green grass stains coating the left side. Over all, he looks a state, leaning against the wall as he limps the rest of the way home, almost out of breath by the time he’s dragged up the fire escape and through the bedroom window.

The next thing Stiles sees is sunlight, shining against closed eyelids and forcing an amber screen into any instantly forgotten dreams.  Groaning, with one hand rubbing sleep from his eyes, Stiles sits up. So exhausted last night, he’d fallen asleep in his clothes, sweaty and damp and sticking to his skin. Every joint seems to hurt, cracking when forced to move.

In the shower, Stiles gingerly washes off the grime from the side of his face, taking note of the large red line outlining the length of his jaw.  The claw wound in his side has scabbed over, looking dirty and stark against the purple bruising. Tearing open the scab with the sole purpose of washing out dirt and wisps of fabric caught in the clot. For the first time in a while, Stiles is fully aware just how miserable he’s feeling, leaning against the water warmed tiles and digging a hand into the yellowish bruise on his knee cap.

Thankfully Scott isn’t home that Saturday morning, so Stiles sits in his underwear on the kitchen floor, dressing the wound with adhesive dressing and a gauze bandage. It stings for a second before numbing. There’s a message from Derek , but Stiles ignores it, leaving his phone on the kitchen counter.

Thanks to losing his most precious baseball bat, Stiles is now forced to use a different weapon of choice. Dragging the clip case from under the bed, Stiles quickly assembles the hunter crossbow with experienced efficiency and sets it down, cleaning the arrows with a cloth. It’s been a while since he’s used to crossbow, but weapons are like learning how to ride a bike, once you’ve learned you never forget how to use them.

Notching one arrow into the string, Stiles raises the firearm and takes aim. For a moment it’s like he’s back in the forest with Chris, shooting targets for hours on end and receiving a warm pat on the back when he’s done well. There’s a sting of guilt for leaving, sharp and suddenly and clammed down before it can escalate.

There’s a tap of knuckles against the rickety window pane, and Stiles lowers his weapon, glancing over his shoulder to see Derek sat in the fire escape. Glaring, Stiles crosses his arms.

“Let me in.” Derek calls, voice muffled through the glass.

“Give me one good reason why I should.” Stiles shouts back, tapping one foot impatiently. If the werewolf didn’t move his butt from the fire escape Stiles is half tempted to push him off it. In answer, Derek holds up a silver coloured, carbon fibre baseball bat with a black grip, a baseball bat which belongs to Stiles. Sighing with frustration, Stiles unlatches the window and allows the werewolf in.

“Make one false move.” Pulling back the safely switch, Stiles aims the cross bow at Derek’s head. “And I’ll shove an arrow through your head and push you out the window okay?”

 Derek nods in understanding, leaning the bat against the wall and moving to sit on the bed when Stiles’ tells him to. His green eyes are lingering on the bandaging around Stiles’ middle.

“So you found the Alpha after all, a little forewarning would have been nice.  A simple ‘watch out Stiles because I’ve turned into Judas and will try to kill you’”. Being overdramatic is also another well practised trait, but as far as the hunter’s concerned, he’s allowed to be a little over the top sometimes.

“He’s my uncle.”

“Oh how sweet, a little family reunion, that must have been so darn special for you. So sorry I had to get in the way.” Loud sarcasm totally mows over Derek’s quiet response, the crossbow finally lowering but not set down.

“I needed to gage how strong he is, if there was any way I’d be able to take him down. Without a pack he’s weak, has a tendency to turn into Alpha form too quickly making him less in control.”

“And you expect me to trust you?”

Derek shakes his head.

“You never trusted me to begin with, why start now.”

*

Derek remains in Stiles’ apartment for the rest of the day, curling up on the sofa and watching bad daytime telly with the sourest expression on his face. Stiles looks up half way through typing out a project and sees the werewolf has shifted down onto his side, eyes closed, lips parted slightly with one arm  dangling over the sofa edge in dreamless sleep. With a slight quirk of the lip, Stiles picks up a light pink comforter, decorated with multiple food stains, off the floor and passes it over Derek’s shoulders. One hand reaches up to claim it instantly, subconscious pulling it tight around his shoulders and tangling it around his legs. 

Looking away quickly, Stiles retreats into his bedroom, back against the wall with his hands scrubbing his face. People like them; they mustn’t grow attached to one another, not when they are all too aware of the world they live in. The world they live in has no room for romance, no room for trust or love or sentimentality, not if you want to survive.

“I take it that the guy on our couch belongs to you” Scott whispers when he comes home, popping his head round the bedroom doorframe.  Stiles is sat at his desk, head phones pushed down around his neck with his laptop plugged into the wall.

“Uh, yeah, if he’s in the way I’ll just wake his lazy ass up.”

Scott does a double take.

“No it’s fine...wait isn’t that the guy who came round the other day, the one you said had a thing for you?”

“How very observant of you, and before you ask, no we did not have sex on the couch. In fact, we did not have sex at all.”

Scott looks caught somewhere between curious and relieved, hesitating for a moment before wisely deciding to leave it. Sliding his headphones back up, Stiles listens in on the boring chatter about the latest hockey game flittering across the transmission line. The police were no longer being of service, so instead Stiles has wired himself up to the frequency used by the hunters . They still hadn’t changed it since he had left, and they too were on the hunt for the Alpha. As far as Stiles is concerned, leave the grunts to do the hard work, and then arrive to steal the show.  Why waste all that energy when gate crashing is both easier and more fun?

It’s around 8 in the evening when idle gossip is finally replaced. Cranking up the volume slightly and pausing the videogame he’s playing, Stiles takes a brief note before pushing out his chair. There’s little time, and they need to be fast if they want to get one over the hunters.

“Derek wake up.” Stiles hisses, shaking the werewolf’s shoulder violently.  Green eyes blink open, bleary to start with, before he’s pushing Stiles’ hands away and stumbling off the sofa.  “Hunters are in pursuit heading towards storage warehouse east of here.”

Scurrying back into his bedroom, Stiles pulls on his outfit and starts fumbling around with boxes, carefully selecting weapons to put in the duffle bag.

“What is that?” Derek asks when Stiles carefully takes three glass vials of clear liquid from a test tube rack.

“Remember, when we were at the school and I took some souvenirs? Well, I used to know a very gorgeous and very smart girl in high school, and one day, much to my hormonal hearts delight, I was paired with her for a science project. Long story short, not only did I learn that I was falling in love with an idea rather than the person; I also learned how to make a delightful cocktail which can spontaneously combust upon impact. You throw the vial, it smashes and you’ve got yourself a bonfire.” 

The scowl has become a permanent fixture on Derek’s face when they’re together; it’s something one grows used to.  Slotting the newly assembled crossbow into its case, Stiles takes the handle and moves to open the window.

“After you my dear, we have an Alpha to catch.”

*

**/DEREK/**

In the end, it all comes down to one thing. The agonizing pain of losing everything, the sour taste of everlasting distrust, the grounding reality of blood on your hands; it always comes back to that. When something terrible happens, the world tends to slow down, tends to fill with water for every sound is muffled and warped. It’s like you’re sat at the bottom of the ocean, with deep sea divers trudging through treacle around you. But all Derek can focus on is the dead weight in his arms, the sound of blood gurgling in the back of another’s throat and the power singing through his veins.

It wasn’t supposed to end like this, not like this.

When it began, there was no slow motion, just the raw speed of tire tracks on the road, and Stiles twisting the steering wheel madly as they speed towards their destination. If they’re to have a chance defeating the Alpha themselves, they have to beat the hunters, which involves breaking pretty much very speed limit in town and a lot of cursing courtesy of the driver. Turning the corner sharply, Derek shamefully admits that he flails,  grips the side of the door when the breaks are slammed on and they come screeching to a halt.

“You are a fucking terrible driver.” Derek grinds out, glaring as Stiles double checks his equipments and clips on the last of his weapons.

“How about next time you bring your own car? Then we can compare because there is no way I’m letting you behind the steering wheel in my ride.” Stiles huffs, fastening thick leather strap with his teeth. 

“Seeing as we have no plan whatsoever, I purpose that you go in there and do your werewolf thing, I’ll find a higher vantage point out of sight and we’ll kick his ass and somehow avoid dying.”  

“Wonderful, that plan sounds foolproof.” Derek rolls his eyes.

“Hey, I didn’t have a lot of time to come up with a good plan, I’m kind of thinking on my feet here. Besides, I don’t see you coming up with any ideas.”

“Let’s just go.” Opening the passenger door and stepping out onto the pavement, Derek attunes his ears for any sign of movement. There’s the scuttling of mice on the warehouse floor, the steady beating of a healthy heart and a scent which distinctly belongs to the Alpha. Peter is in there, somewhere, probably not unaware of Derek’s presence but not taking it as a threat.

“Help me out a second.” Stiles whispers, pointing upwards to a window on the side of the building. The window is a small hatch, too small for Derek to fit through, but Stiles is a perfect candidate. It’s out of reach, but when Derek hoists Stiles up to sit on his shoulder, the teenage is in line with the dirty pane.

“Hurry up Stiles.” Derek hisses, pressing one hand against the wall to stop him from toppling over as the over hand lies on Stiles’ knee, stopping the boy from strangling him with his thighs.

“Yeah yeah quit your bitching.” Stiles mumbles, two small pin held between his teeth as he bends a bobby pin between his fingers. Jamming one end in the lock, he takes another pin from between his teeth and shoves that one in too.

“Have you ever done this before?”  Derek hisses, looking up as Stiles starts to jiggle one of the pins furiously, making the window shake in the frame.

“No, but I’ve watched a lot of videos on youtube” Never has Derek wanted to slam his face into a wall as much as he wants to now. Screw subtly, with the way it’s going now the whole neighbourhood will be coming down the street in about five minutes. He’s half tempted to drop Stiles’ ass on the pavement and bash the front door open as planned, but he knows the hunter wants a vantage point, and his only easy way up to the warehouse rafters is through the window.

Eventually, the lock clicks open and Stiles looks down at him, equally as surprised and all too pleased with himself. After a little eyebrow waggling, Stiles wiggles through the tiny gap, accidentally kicking Derek in the forehead a couple of times.  The human is on his own now.

Dusting down his leather jacket, Derek walks around to the front of the building, heaving open the heavy doors. Inside its dark, with rows upon rows of poorly stocked shelves stretching off into the depths, and dusty windows fogging up the street lights outside. It’s poorly stocked and rarely used and the rafters creak from the sudden weight upon them. The floor is dirty and grit slides under foot as Derek slowly walks down one of the aisles.  It’s eerie, with the sound of rodents and traffic outside, the shift of weight as Stiles climbs up into a suitable position, the sounds of his heart tuned out to prevent distraction. The Alpha is hidden, not giving a single indication of his whereabouts.

Pain suddenly erupts in Derek’s shoulder and he’s on the ground, one arrow buried deep in his shoulder.  There’s a moment when Derek is sure Stiles has betrayed him, shot him when his back was turned, but he can still hear the sound of the teen trying to climb into position, seemingly unaware of the unfolding events.  Snapping the thin shaft with a cry, Derek barely rises to his feet before there’s another arrow imbedding his thigh. It’s severed the artery there, blood managing to flow thick and fast to soak a patch into his jeans. Breaking that arrow hurts a lot more, and he lies there, still and unmoving as it repairs.

“Really a big thanking is in order, I mean you lead us straight here Derek, even after you said you didn’t know where the Alpha was. Good thing we weren’t able to kill you last time.”  The devastating, crushing hatred is instant as soon as the sound of that voice is heard. It feels as bad as it had the first time he had seen her in six years, when she and her hunter friends broke in his house and tried to kill him with a machine gun. Derek could still feel the jolts of electricity running through his veins as he writhed almost helpless on the floor. Never had the need to kill been so strong, not even when the moon is full had blood lust ever felt like this.

But when Derek sees Kate, the wolf inside goes rabid, wanting to feel the blood on his hands like it’s the only thing needed to survive. 

The sound of boots on the dusty floor echoes as she approaches, smile still as predatory as ever when she lowers the gun to his head.

“Too bad we really don’t need you around anymore.”

There’s gunfire, but it does not come from Kate. A bullet whizzes between them, crashing into the shelf and making the wood splinter.  They both turn their heads to see Chris Argent and Stiles stood at the end of the row, none other than Chris holding the gun.

“That’s enough Kate, you’ve done enough damage.” Chris says, not lowering the weapon as Stiles adjusts the grip on his bat.

“You can’t be serious Chris. We’ve always been told to put a rabid dog down and that’s exactly what I’m doing. Now long do you think it’ll be before Derek turns out like Peter? Especially when he’s been hanging about with your psychotic protégé”

“Oh and you would know all about psychopaths wouldn’t you Kate.” Stiles interrupts, rolling his eyes and Derek can’t believe that he’s just lying on the floor whilst all this is happening. But the attention is elsewhere, and if he moves then the tables might turn against his favour.

“This isn’t how we do things, remember the code.” Chris says slowly, earning a bitter laugh in return.

“Codes are made to be broken; you’re the only one who still takes it seriously.” Kate turns back, smile gone and replaced with an ugly frown. “They’re just monsters waiting for a reason, and this little Beta has reason enough.”

Before anyone can make a move, there’s a savage growl rumbling deep from within the warehouse. Derek looks towards Stiles and they both know it’s the Alpha, everyone knows it’s the Alpha. There’s a flash of black mass moving across the floor before Chris is knocked down onto his back, grunting in pain and quickly followed by Stiles.

“Come on!” Kate screams, moving in fast circles in search for the Alpha, gun pointing at nothing as she turns this way and that, moving away from Derek. Out of nowhere, Peter emerges from the darkness, placing an iron grip on her wrist and bending until the bones crack. Bullets fire through the air, pinging off metal lining and worn shelving. The other hand moves to her throat, claws digging into the soft skin and feeling the rush of blood in the jugular.

“You decimated my family, leaving me burned and broken for six years.” Peter’s voice is hoarse, forced out like the words bring physical pain. “Do you not think, that is reason enough?”

Shaking his head, Peter pulls her close, almost intimate as Kate struggled against the hold, nails scratching at the wrists that hold her captive.  Derek doesn’t look away when her throat is ripped out; watching with deep satisfaction as blood splatters the floor and bubbles in the back of her throat, the last bits of oxygen leaving the cages of the lungs. People always say blood smells like metal, but it doesn’t. Blood just smells like blood, and right now it’s the best smell in the world. The satisfaction is mirrored on Peter’s face, but like all killers in search of vengeance, peace has not been achieved. Some people taste blood and once they do they cannot stop.

He starts to slowly make his way to Chris who is still lying on the floor with Stiles kneeling over him. Derek pushes up when Stiles looks, swiping the Alpha across the chest with one metal claw. For a moment, Derek can see the wolf in Stiles, the dormant wolf sleeping under the surface, vicious and loyal and unafraid. There’s something to be admired.

But no matter how fearless, Stiles stands no chance against a blood thirsty Alpha werewolf. Scrambling to his feet, Derek shifts into wolf form; running to slash his claws across the back of the Alpha’s neck as Stiles delivers a blow to the flank with his baseball bat.  The double attack confuses Peter for a moment, making it hard to control the shift as he face starts to contort, jaw breaking and resetting, muzzle attempting to push through the surface. 

One arm swings through the air, hitting Stiles’ roughly in the shoulder and sending him flying into the shelving. His head cracks against the wood and he falls to the floor, blinking and disorientated. The Alpha turns on Derek then, wolves snarling at each other, eyes flashing. Peter is no longer Peter; he’s replaced with a beast, eager to destroy any who defy him.

Bearing his fangs, Derek flips off the shelf to kick the Alpha in the face, his ankle getting caught in meaty paws and he’s thrown aside. He collides roughly with the shelving, sending it toppling over with a loud bang and a splintering of wood.  The claws have torn open his shin and for a moment he can see the bone under the red flesh.  The Alpha growls, lowering onto all fours and climbing over Derek like he had in the school, ready to rip out his throat. 

It’s like history repeats, as Stiles, having pulled himself off the floor, dives onto the Alpha, driving two knives into the soft junction where neck meets shoulders. A pained howl erupts and the Alpha rears back, knocking Stiles from his back and onto the floor. There’s nothing Derek can do, leg collapsing under him when standing as the wound takes its time to heal. The Alpha turns on the human, hitting him again with an up swipe of claws and sending him skidding across the floor.

Stiles’ cry of pain echoes in the rafters

Out of the corner of his eye, Derek can see Chris rushing over to Stiles, kneeling over his body. There seems to be a confrontation but Derek can’t pay attention, ducking under claws that swing towards his face. One hand drives into his stomach and Derek is lifted off the ground, tossed aside like a limp rag doll. It hurts and the healing process it slowing from the strain.

Suddenly there’s a smash of glass and flames erupt from nowhere, consuming the Alpha’s body and sending a bright heat into the warehouse. The Alpha roars, staggering,  tearing down shelving in a frantic panic. Derek can feel his heart beat drumming into his ribs, not able to look away from the orange tongues of fire.

Fear burns electric in his mind, fear of the flames and the heat and the vile smell of smoke and burning flesh. There are screams in his ears, shrill cries for help and suddenly Laura’s arms are wrapping around his body, preventing him from running and screaming. They’re both crying and shaking; pinned down in the dirt as the house comes collapsing down into the inferno. The screams start to stop, dying out and buried in the roar of flames.

The fear is consuming, making it hard to think straight and the only thing the wolf wants to do is run far away as fast as possible.

There’s a hollow ache as the Alpha falls to his knees, and then down onto the floor, embers extinguishing finally. Now is the time, when the body is still smoking, charred and blisters and prone. Derek rises stiffly to his feet, ignoring the cries from Chris who is desperately trying to get his attention. Nothing can stop the Beta now.

Straddling the body, Derek looks down at the last bit of light in his uncle’s eyes, listens to the shuddering wheeze of oxygen poorly entering his lungs.

“Derek wait!” Chris shouts but it’s too late, claws have extended and they tear through Peter’s throat with a spray of blood. The light fades out and suddenly Derek’s veins are singing, the sudden rush of power making the hairs of the back of his neck stand on edge. It’s like an electric shock, fast and sudden and sending every nerve into spasm.

Closing his eyes for a moment, Derek inhales deeply, knowing his eyes are glowing crimson when he opens them. Rising through the body, the new Alpha turns, ready to display the altered sense of power, but he freezes.

Still lying on the floor is Stiles, motionless; the smell of blood is potent in the warehouse. This is when the world slows down.

He’s falling to his knees, dragging the young hunter into his lap. Blood has pooled on the floor, prominent like that bad coffee stain you could never get out of the comforter. The side of his face is bruised and gashed from where he hit the bookcase and there’s scrapes on his knuckles.  Pushing aside the torn cloth of a hoody that’s barely hanging in there, Derek can see the wound he delivered only yesterday, ripping open and bleeding all over ripped bandages. Alongside this is a new slash, deep and fresh and spewing blood with every shallow intake of breath.

Without realising, Derek is tapping the side of Stiles’ slack face with red fingers, calling out but getting no response. When did this happen? The sudden attachment, the sudden ache that something else might be taken away. Stiles wasn’t supposed to be this, he was supposed to be a bratty hunter with a disproportioned sense of ownership. The kid would probably laugh at Derek if he could see this; see Derek kneeling over him like the devastated lover that never was.

“We need to get him to hospital Derek, _now_ , before he loses too much blood.” Chris’ voice suddenly comes into focus.

Derek disappears when the red and blue lights come round the corner fifteen minutes later. He’s faced one fear tonight; he cannot bear to face another.

*

Hospitals are horrible places. Derek fears them as much as he does the fire, fears the bleeping of monitors, and nurses hurrying back and forth. The place reeks of death, of misery, of sour disinfectant and bitter medicine.  Illness is not a pleasant smell, not for a person who cannot get ill unless poisoned with wolfbane.

But Derek cannot stay away. He pulls up in the parking lot and is instantly reminded of all the times he visited Peter in the care centre, looked at his half burnt face and empty body with both anger and sadness. He almost backs out right there and then, but pulls himself together and gets out the car.

Inside the place is busy with the night shift, doctors ferrying between the cafeteria, their offices and their surgery rooms. It’s been three hours since they’d called the ambulance.  According to the doctors, Stiles had been mugged. Of course, he would deny remembrance when he came round. There’s no need for directions, Derek just follows the light smell of wild berries and warm bread, slipping seamlessly through the hospital wards until he finds the room.

Through the glass, Stiles is lying on a neatly made hospital bed with duck egg blue coloured sheets. He’s cleaned up, the bruising even more prominent than before.  There’s adhesive dressing over the gash on his face, and under the sheets and spotted hospital gown, Derek knows the wounds will be stitched and maybe even bandaged.  It’s tragic, how damageable human bodies are.

Looking at him now, the little warrior is suddenly human again; so squishy, so fragile, about as sturdy as a water balloon filled with tiny shards of glass.

This time, Derek walks out the hospital without a word, and doesn’t return again.

**/STILES/**

Hospitals are horrible places. During the time spent there, Stiles can’t stop thinking about that banner hanging up in the cafeteria when his mother had died. ‘ _Everything Will Be Alright’._ It’s not right to lie to people in a fucking hospital, especially not in cheery orange font that’s made to look like a child had written it. Stuff like that is cruel and unusual and the exact reason why Stiles hates hospitals.

That and they have the worst flavoured jelly of all time.

Not many people had come to see him. Of course, his dad was by his side almost constantly, totally freaking out when the nurse told him that his son had been mugged and left for dead. It wasn’t the truth, but it was easy to handle. During the short time periods when his father disappeared to do temporary shifts back home, Chris visited once. It hadn’t been as tense as Stiles expected it to be, but they weren’t there to discuss the past, only to make Stiles up to speed with current events.

A part of him is utterly disappointed that Derek made no appearance.  It hurts, you becomes partners in crime with someone and the least they could do is show up at your bedside every once in a while. But they are not friends, not lovers, just strangers with the promise of a nice piece of ass at the end of it.  No attachment is involved, so he shouldn’t be so disappointed.

However, it’s been a month since his release from hospital. A quiet month, with very little supernatural interference and a hell load of school work. Scott luckily hasn’t gone totally weird on him, even if he had insisted accompanying Stiles wherever he went for the first couple of days. It was very chivalrous of him, but Stiles had firmly said that he was not some damsel and could take care of himself. The same could not be said for his dad, who was still phoning pretty much every day. Not that Stiles could blame him, if the roles had been reversed then Stiles didn’t know what he would do.  

The gash on his face had healed and there were now a nice set of white scars puckering his flank.

Any sane person would not go out hunting again, would not don the gear and run out into the night like some wannabe superhero. But Stiles is neither a superhero or entirely sane. No, he’s more the antihero of the city’s story, and there is no rest for the wicked in these parts of town. 

Grinning fiendishly when he sees a very familiar figure walking down the street, Stiles tongues the back of his teeth.

“I wonder if you could help me, you wouldn’t know of any supernatural creatures in these parts? I am looking for one werewolf in particular.” Stiles coos in a sing-song voice, twirling his baseball in hand as he skips along the top of the brick wall. The figure stops dead, turning slowly and Derek Hale is the one who faces him. 

“Careful there Little Red, trusting strangers in these parts is not the best idea.” Derek drawls, a playful smirk teasing at his lips as he steps towards the wall. Stiles stops, taps his bat against the brick for a second before sitting down. He allows Derek to slot between his legs, the top of the wall pressing just under his shoulders.

“I’m not afraid of Alpha werewolves if that’s what you’re worried about.”  Stiles teases as strong hands slide up the length of his thighs.  The smirk spreads into a smile with a hint of teeth, the low glow of crimson eyes seeping out from under hooded eyelids.

“Good.”  There’s a pause, Derek’s eyes rolling over every inch of Stiles’ body, checking the damage repair and just taking a good long look.

“That’s new.” The werewolf says, tapping the plastic of the spray painting mask hanging around Stiles’ neck. Pretty much all his costume had to be replaced, and seeing as he couldn’t find a black scarf that wasn’t itchy as hell, Stiles had settled for an alternative.

“And so are they.” Stiles says, pointing towards Derek’s human eyes.  Suddenly, strong hands are pulling Stiles from the wall, jamming him in the tiny gap between Derek’s body and the brick.

“All the better to see you with.” There’s a flash of fang and Derek’s red eyes are brighter this time, shining through the street lamp illuminated darkness. It makes Stiles laugh, reaching his hands up to dance over Derek’s chest and up over his shoulders.

“Remind me to get you role-playing more often; I could get down with this.”

“Are you finally admitting I’m the big bad wolf?”

“Not quite, but at least you tried.”

 Derek’s smile lessens as his hands coast over the curve of Stiles’ ass and up under his hoody, warm rough skin feeling the softness of Stiles’ back. Stiles is taking too must interest in the muscular tendon in Derek’s neck, fingers rubbing tiny circles into the knotted muscle there.

“You still owe me a reward you know.” Derek mumbles in his ear, teeth latching onto the lobe and sucking.

“I’m sure we can arrange something.”

“Like a date?” Derek’s mouth moves down the cold, pale skin of his neck and Stiles’ tilts his head just so to make a little more room.

“People like us don’t date.” It the reply that makes Derek pulls back, standing forehead to forehead with the human, and although Stiles isn’t used to it, he can feel the warm bubble of happiness simmering beneath the skin.

“Who said?” With that Stiles chuckles, sinking into the strong embrace as the Alpha werewolf closes the tiny gap to kiss him.

They may be lost and tormented soles; the warrior and the wolf. But when you’re going through hell, the best thing to do is befriend the demons. 

**Author's Note:**

> Stiles' claw weapons is based off [this little baby right here](http://sphotos.ak.fbcdn.net/hphotos-ak-ash1/hs547.ash1/31975_124754534229982_100000863071588_132605_6256335_n.jpg)
> 
> It's likely there will be more parts to this AU because I love it a lot 
> 
>  
> 
> [Soundtrack (part 1)](http://sodafly.tumblr.com/post/30170747061/so-heres-the-soundtrack-i-promised-for/)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [it's spiraling down](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2222907) by [TheMipstaz](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheMipstaz/pseuds/TheMipstaz)




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